d I like to be armed
when I take a stroll with them in a lonely country district.

So we walk down to Kilfinane to look after the progress made in
arranging quarters for the soldiers presently expected, some fifty odd
redcoats or rifles as the authorities may decide. It is instructive to
observe the demeanour of the people towards us. My companion formerly
lived at Kilfinane, and took his share of the work there, but he was
the first of his family "Boycotted," and was obliged to take up his
quarters in his uncle's house. Not a blacksmith could be found to
shoe his horse, and not a living creature to cook his food; so a forge
belonging to the mounted division of the Royal Irish Constabulary was
sent down for the horse, and the master of that interesting animal
went up to the big house to eat and sleep, and the "Boycotters" were,
so far, brought to nought. But the good folk of Kilfinane eye us
terribly askant, or, to be more literally exact, do not eye us at all;
at least, their eyes betray "no speculation." Had I driven in from
Charleville alone I might have gossipped with all the idlers of the
village, but now that I am walking with a "Boycotted" person I seem to
have become invisible. A few men are on the side walks--a few women at
their doors--but they either look at us as if we were transparent as
panes of glass, or suddenly become interested in their boots or finger
nails, both which would be better for more regular attention. The
children run away and hide themselves as if a brace of megalosauri or
other happily extinct monsters had crawled out of the bog and come
into Kilfinane to look for a meal. It is altogether a strange
experience. It dawns upon me that the man who has driven me over from
Charleville might issue from the hotel and ask for my orders, but he
does not.

The edifice wherein he has established himself, his vehicle and
horses, is of a bright salmon colour, rejoiceful to the eyes of the
natives. My driver, on being asked at my arrival, greatly preferred
the rude freedom and plenty of this pink hostelry to the supposed
narrow rations of a house under ban. Possibly he loves the ruddy-faced
village inn on account of its affinity in hue to that of his own
visage, in which nose and beard contend fiercely for pre-eminence in
warmth of tone. But be this as it may, he is just now giving warmth
and colour to the interior of the establishment, instead of trying to
catch my eye as I go past.

There is absol